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THE REAL O'LEARY
Deceiving Creatures
“Pardon me, sir. Can you tell me where Allied Recon Group H might be located?”
A large man stood in the doorway. Filled the doorway, in fact. Monk eyed the intruder warily. “Well, lad, you’re bloody well standing in it. Who might you be?”
“Sir, I -- I think there’s been a mistake.” The big man twisted his hat into a shapeless mass.
“This is the bleedin’ Army, soldier. Mistakes are our stock in trade. You, for instance, are making a tragic mistake right this very minute.” Monk assumed a stern visage.
“Ah . . . what . . . what might that be, sir?”
Monk shook his head sadly. “There you go again. Sitting before you is a bleedin’ RCAF Flight Sergeant! Sergeant Monkhouse to you. I'm not a bloody farking officer!”
“Oh -- sorry. You was sitting in the Colonel’s office and at his desk, so I . . .” Indeed, Monk was in Colonel Muskrat’s office and at that same officer’s desk. Monk figured that all military property belonged to the public and, being part of the public, he was free to appropriate any such property as was not in use.
Monk elected not to explain all this to the man mountain. “I’m borrowing the office, large person. Now tell me about this other mistake.” He motioned for the lad to sit down.
“Well, I’ve been sent to this here ARGH outfit . . .” The big fellow stopped speaking; his mouth formed into an “O”. “Hey -- ARGH -- that’s funny. Just like in the cartoons!” He laughed in a deep, rumbling way. Monk decided to hate him.
“Which isn’t the only funny thing about this outfit,” said Monk with bland certainty.
“So, here I am. And it seems to me that there’s been a mistake, sir -- er, sergeant.”
The conversation was making Monk tired. “Tell me why is you’re being here such a bloody mistake. Have you any orders?”
Orders were handed over and Monk learned that one Dumas Treacle, PFC, US Army Ranger, was assigned to ARGH. “An interesting name -- I assume you go by a nickname?”
“Yeah. I was named after a rich uncle -- who went broke in '29. My friends call me Duey. Mom said nobody ever called me later for dinner either.” Again with the earthquake laugh.
“Enough levity, Duey! You have been assigned to this unit for a special assignment involving very dangerous activity, possibly in France. How do you feel about that?”
“Oh, man,” said Duey. “France! That would be fantastic! What kind of weapons would I be using? Not a BAR, I hope.”
“You don’t like the BAR?” Frankly, Monk thought a light machine gun with a 20-round clip was stupid, not to mention morally repugnant.
“It’s a piece of crap!” exclaimed Duey. Monk’s estimation of the lad went up a notch.
“What would you like to carry?”
“Well, since it’s in France, how about an MG-42?”
“A German machine gun? Why?”
“It’s the best light machine gun in the world, for one thing. For another, ammo wouldn’t be a problem. We just knock over a few krauts and there’s our ammo.” Duey looked more intelligent by the minute.
“How about the MP-40?”
“Sure. Good backup to the MG-42.”
“You’ll carry both? You’ll want a Luger, as well, I suppose?”
“I’ll carry the MG-42 for shock value, the MP-40 for close-in stuff, and no, I don’t want a Luger. I’ll take a Colt automatic. Regular 1911A1.”
“I like the Colt myself,” agreed Monk.
“Damn right,” said Duey, warming to the subject. “Drop that hand cannon in the mud and it’ll still shoot. Run out of bullets and it makes a dandy club.”
Monk automatically figured anyone who agreed with him was intelligent. Duey was smarter than he looked. “I don’t suppose you speak any French?”
“Some. A lady back home taught me quite a bit. Got along okay during the Dieppe raid.”
“You were in that bloody mess?”
Duey nodded. “Yeah, that’s where I first used the MG-42 and MP-40. Took ‘em off dead krauts. Captain made me turn ‘em in when we got back.” The memory of losing the German weapons seemed to make him genuinely sad.
“Too bad. We’ll get you some new toys. So you learned French at home?”
Duey seemed reluctant. Monk grinned. “This lady -- she teach you anything besides French?”
Red faced and chuckling, the big man nodded. “Yeah. I was nearly sixteen when she moved to town. Her husband traveled a lot. Gone for weeks at a time. I guess she was lonely.”
“I’m sure she was. How old was the lady?”
“Late twenties. Not over thirty. I mowed her lawn and did other chores around the house.”
“I’ll bet you bloody well did! How long did this go on?”
“Until I graduated from high school and left for the Army.” Duey grinned. “Told my little brother to go over and offer to help out after I was gone.”
Monk exploded with laughter. “Bloody good show! Have you heard from him?”
“Yeah, a couple months later I got a letter from him. He said the lady had given him something special for his sixteenth birthday. The word special was heavily underlined. He’s probably screwing himself half to death. I know I did.” They both laughed again.
“Damn, Duey, I think you’ll fit right in at this bloody lunatic asylum. I don’t suppose you learned any German. Maybe from another friendly lady?”
“Nah. All I know is what they’ve been teaching us in the Army. You know, all that ‘surrender’ and ‘throw down your weapon’ crap.”
“You don’t think those phrases will come in handy? Some jerries may want to surrender.”
“Well,” said Duey, “they better learn to say ‘I surrender’ in English. If they say anything in kraut I’m just gonna put bullet holes in ‘em. Safer that way.”
“Right,” agreed Monk. “It’s good to have another bleedin’ philosopher around.” He stood up and stretched. “Come on. I’ll show you where to put your gear. Then we’ll get some dinner.”
“I’m for that,” said Duey. “It’s been a couple hours since I ate.”
*****
Monk spotted Leftenant Slim entering the mess and waved him over to the table. Duey was shoveling away at his second helping of everything -- near as Monk could figure. The lad could eat, no doubt about it. With shoulders that barely fit through doorways and a build that would have been appropriate on a medium size truck, Duey looked like he could be very useful if you had to, say, take out a pillbox -- by hand.
Slim sat down, eyeing Monk’s companion with interest. “Who might this be?”
Monk grinned. “This bloody portable mountain is Duey. He appears to belong to us, sir. Had we requested battalion-sized reinforcements?”
Slim laughed. Duey managed a sheepish grin and shook hands. Then he dug in afresh. Monk drained his coffee and stood. “I’m going down to the flightline, sir. I’ll check at Ops for any messages.” Slim nodded and Monk went on his way.
Slim sipped his coffee as Duey ate. He marveled at the lad’s endurance and capacity. “You joined the Army for the food, I take it?”
Duey gave him a perplexed look. “Yes, sir. Sort of. Pa said he couldn’t feed me any more. Not after my brother started getting his full growth.” He shrugged. “There weren’t no jobs and I could see the war coming. So, here I am.” He waved at the meager remains on the table. “This stuff ain’t much like Ma’s cooking, but there’s plenty of it.”
“Not any more there isn’t,” chuckled Slim.
Duey frowned. “I don’t want to be out of line, sir. But, that Monk character is a little strange looking. Sorta like something out of a horror story.”
“Don’t tell him that,” warned Slim. “He’s a bit sensitive. Especially about the fangs.”
“I noticed those right off, but didn’t say nothing. Is it some sorta birth thingy?”
“No, no, it’s not a birth defect.” Slim paused. “The thing is, Duey, we don’t know a hell of a lot about Monk. He just showed up one day with an A-20 of his own, a phony British accent, and a set of orders assigning him to this unit.”
“His own plane?” Duey’s forehead wrinkled. “How’s a flight sergeant rate a personal plane? And he ain’t a birth defective then what is he?”
Slim was silent for a moment. “He says he’s half one thing.” He smiled slightly. “And half something else. We assume he’s at least half human, but the issue is open to question.”
Duey held his hands up. “Say no more, sir. I don’t have a problem with weird people. You should of seen my last platoon sergeant!”
Slim nodded. “I can well imagine! I’m afraid that isn’t all. Monk brought along a crew chief-gunner who -- ah -- well, he claims to be a small dragon.” Duey studied Slim’s face, but said nothing. “His name is Che. Every week or so he disappears. Claims to go someplace mysterious where he can turn back into a dragon.”
“So he can eat?”
“Yes,” said Slim in an astonished tone. “That’s what he says. How did you know?”
Shaking his head, Duey said, “I don’t know. It just figures. Wow! I can’t believe I was lucky enough to land this assignment!”
“Assignment? Oh, you mean being attached to this unit?”
“No,” answered Duey. “Well, that too. But I’m really glad to go on this next mission!”
“What mission?” asked Slim. Now it was his turn to be perplexed.
“The mission to save some guy named O'Leary.”
Slim eyed Duey with trepidation. “Did you bring along some orders or something?”
Shaking his head, Duey pointed at the mess hall entrance. “Nope. Monk just got them. See. He’s bringing ‘em now.”
Monk was, indeed, walking quickly toward them -- as quickly as his odd, bowlegged stride would carry him. He was waving a set of papers. Slim looked back at Duey. “How the hell did you know that?”
“Search me, sir,” answered the big man, “Sometimes I just know.”
Monk plunked down in a chair. “Orders! We’ve got orders to go find a lunk named O'Leary and spring him form Nazi custody.”
“I know,” said Slim, pondering the implications, “Duey just told me.”
Dr. O'Leary’s Secret
“Let me get this straight,” said Slim. “The Germans think they have this -- scientific fellow -- Dr. O'Leary. And we want them to keep on thinking they have him.” The briefing officer nodded in agreement. “Okay,” Slim went on, “now tell me again how rescuing our O'Leary, fits into this grand scheme of yours.”
“Um,” the briefing officer thought for a minute. “We -- uh, I mean -- the authorities in the US have lost track of the real Dr. O'Leary.”
“Lost track of him?” asked Monk. “Lost his current address, lost him in a park, or -- what?”
The officer avoided looking directly at Monk. “Ah -- you see -- Dr. O'Leary had been complaining of too much work and not enough booze. He’s Irish, you know.”
“Well,” said Slim sarcastically, “I guess that explains everything! An Irish scientist wanders off to spend a little quiet time with his whiskey, so we have to waltz over to France and convince the Jerries that they’re holding that Irish drunk and not our O'Leary, another Irish drunk. Does that sum it all up?”
Duey looked confused. “I’m really confused,” he mumbled.
Captain Franko, ARGH’s other American, patted him on the back. “Welcome to the Central Confusion Society, lad. I’m sure it will get worse in a minute.”
The briefing officer eased toward the door. “We -- um, that is, your lot just needs to keep the Germans guessing for a few days. Let them think they have Dr. O'Leary long enough for the -- ah, real O'Leary to be located.” He started through the door.
“Not so fast!” Monk dragged the officer back into the room and slammed the door. “What does this bloody Dr. O'Leary do that’s so damned important? Why would the Germans want him in the first place? Is he one of them ‘atomic scientists’ none of us is supposed to know about?”
The officer was appalled. “Where did you hear about atomic stuff? That’s Triple Top Secret!” Tears spilled down his face. “You have to have a secret decoder ring to be part of the Triple Top Secret Club. I -- I don’t even have one.” He broke into sobs.
Franko leaned over to Duey. “What are atomics anyway?”
Duey shrugged. “Microscopic thingmies -- sorta like your . . .” He broke off laughing. Franko essayed a thin smile and shook his head.
Slim consoled the distraught briefing officer. “It’s okay. Monk was just kidding. We don’t know anything about atom bombs or stealth planes or any of that high tech junk. So tell us what Dr. O'Leary does. Even if it involves some sort of wonder weapon or alien creatures. We can keep a secret. Scout’s honor. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Controlling himself, the officer pulled some pictures from his valise. “It’s better to show you, I guess.” He spread the photos out on a table. The men gazed at them in stunned silence.
Franko let out a low whistle. Duey swallowed hard. Monk cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. Slim touched the pictures gingerly, as if afraid to mar them. “These are fantastic!” he breathed. “But, what does Dr. O'Leary have to do with these -- ah -- scantily clad women?”
The officer gazed at the pictures reverently, “Look at the -- um . . .”
“Yes,” said Franko in a strained voice, “look at them. Not just generous -- but . . .”
Gathering the photos, the briefing officer explained, “Dr. O'Leary has invented a device. A non-surgical device that combines anti-gravity waves and atomic restructuring. It gives any woman a pair of youthful -- ah . . .”
“Boobs,” said Duey. “Why are we waltzing around here! Boobs. Damn nice ones, too.”
“A single treatment with Dr. O'Leary’s device is sufficient for about six months. I assume you gentlemen are familiar with the Nazi’s fascination with well endowed women?” Still in shock, the men nodded. “Well,” the officer continued, “what do you suppose they would do for the secret of this machine?”
“The question is,” said Slim, “What wouldn’t they do for it?”
“What’s this thing -- this device called?” asked Monk.
“Dr. O'Leary called it the MEM -- Mammary Enhancement Machine. We -- uh -- we refer to it as the boobilyzer.” He grinned in embarrassment. “Sort of an inside joke.”
“So,” said Slim, recovering a bit, “we have to distract the Germans from trying to locate this Dr. O'Leary. And we do that by attempting a rescue of our old pal, O'Leary.” He thought for a moment. “What if he just tells them who he is?”
“Would you believe him?” asked the officer. “If you were a Nazi, I mean?” The men all shook their heads with a chorus of ‘no way’, ‘hell no’, and ‘I’d beat it out of him’.
Duey looked puzzled. “Why do we care if the Germans get hold of this O'Leary and his boobilyzer thing? So what if all the women in Kraut land get rejuvenated boobs?”
“Morale,” said the briefing officer, “Morale.” He held up one of the more fantastic photos. “If you were German -- and all the young and not so young women in Germany were equipped like this -- wouldn’t your fight damned hard to keep Russian, British, and -- most of all -- Canadian troops away from the old homestead?”
They all nodded, speechless.
“Okay,” said Slim after a reverent pause, “I guess Operation Deny Boobs is on.”
Loading for Bear
Slim raised his head over the parapet. The target vehicle, an old five-ton lorry, was reduced to a heap of twisted steel. The rubber remaining on the shredded tires was burning, adding to the towering smoke cloud. Bits of metal, wood, and canvas covered the ground. Some pieces were still fluttering down. “Goddamn, lad! What was that?”
Duey patted the bazooka tube affectionately, “Gets your attention, don’t it?”
Slim turned to meet the range officer. “What the bloody hell are you lot doing?” The officer was covered with dirt and splinters. He stood at the edge of the pit and surveyed the damage to his target lorry. “Look at my target!” he shouted. “You’ve blown it to bloody fragments!”
Slim led the furious officer away, speaking soothingly. “An experimental round, I’m afraid. The chaps at the factory didn’t mention it being this powerful. Dreadfully sorry, old man.” The others climbed out of the pit, dusting dirt off clothing and shaking out caps. Small scraps of canvas continued to drift down.
“Well,” said Slim, upon his return, “this range is off-limits to us for the duration.” He gazed around at the group. “Anyone care to tell me what sort of projectile that was?”
“Um -- the round was standard HE, sir,” said Duey. “Except we added a little something to boost it -- just a bit.”
Monk and Che developed a sudden interest in getting back into the truck they’d brought to the range. “Get back here, you two!” snapped Slim. “And explain to me, in simple terms, what was added to that explosive charge what nearly blew our bloody heads off!”
Monk didn’t say anything. Che shrugged and said, “It was only a little something the lads over at Technical Developments came up with -- uh -- sir. Just a few drops.”
“Technical Developments,” repeated Slim carefully. “An experimental explosive. Right! I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Back in the truck! We’ll just run along back to base now.” He caught Duey as everyone scrambled aboard. “How many drops did you use, lad?”
“Three, sir. Just three.”
Slim clapped him on the back. “No more than one drop from now on, lad. No more than one. It’s considered good form to survive the application of your own weapons.”
*****
Franko groaned as he hefted his gear. “I don’t know why we have to take this damn bazooka. I can’t carry all this crap!”
In the evening twilight five men were loading gear aboard a Lysander. They were in no hurry. The mission couldn’t begin until full dark.
“Jeez, maybe I can carry some of it,” offered Duey.
Slim shook his head emphatically. “No you won’t. You’re already carrying enough for a pack mule. He can handle it.”
“Yeah, Franko,” chided Monk. “Carry your own stuff, you big crybaby.”
“Monk,” retorted Franko, “All you’re carrying around is an empty head. Buzz off!”
“Careful,” said Che, elbowing Monk, “Franko just came back from survival school. He’s a bonafide commando now.” They all roared with laughter -- except Franko. Red-faced, he began examining his boots.
Duey looked around in puzzlement. Monk told the story:
After being dropped in the highlands, along with nine other survival students, Franko made his way straight to the nearest road, hitched a ride into town, and spent the next two nights at a local brothel. The town constable delivered his sodden remains to the school commander’s office on the morning of the third day, having found him lying in a ditch -- blind drunk and clad only in his dogtags and one sock. The commander, a heavy-set British major, was not amused.
“Well,” Franko explained, “they just told us to survive. It was implied, but not actually stated, that we should stay out in the damp woods and eat small innocent animals. I didn’t know it was required.” He grinned crookedly. “It was much warmer and drier with the tarts.”
“Too bloody right!” agreed Monk, chuckling. “I think you were quite resourceful. Selling your equipment to finance your -- ah -- romantic endeavors was a stroke of genius.” He paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Although it was one of the sticky points raised by that rather straight-laced British major. We had a terrible time convincing him to release you. He was obsessed with a courts martial, to be followed immediately by a firing squad.”
Franko looked bleak. “I don’t remember any of this. How’d you get him to let me go?”
“Sergeant Bossi showed up with paperwork proving that you had turned all that stuff in through the proper channels,” explained Slim. “He even had a chit for the fifty pounds he loaned you.”
“Fifty pounds!” yelled Franko. “What fifty pounds?”
“Why, the fifty pounds you spent at the -- um -- sporting establishment.” Slim extended a slip of paper. “Here’s the chit -- what did he call it -- ah, yes -- the IOU.”
Franko spluttered. “Why that -- that rotten, no-good . . . It’s robbery! Extortion. I won’t pay it! Not a penny of it!” He crumpled the paper and tossed it away.
“Monk,” said Slim, “What were the various penalties the major intended to invoke for our lad here? Excluding the firing squad, of course. I think the major was merely over-excited when he threatened him with that.”
Monk scratched his head. “Well, leaving out the firing squad, I think it was hard labor, sir. Yes, that’s it! Hard bloody labor for up to ten years.” He held up a hand. “Providing, of course, they was to recover his rifle. With the rifle it was more like twenty years, if I recalls correctly.”
“I hear,” said Slim benevolently, “that the climate at Leavenworth isn’t bad, except for most of the year.”
The color drained from Franko’s face. He swallowed. “I -- ah . . .” He patted his pockets. “What happened to that IOU? I’ll have to get my good buddy, Bossi, to write me a new one.”
Che handed him a crumpled paper. “You better keep this one. Who knows how much he might put on another one?” He grinned. “Why worry? Either one of you might be dead in a few days. Can’t collect money from the dead -- or owe it too them.”
Franko tucked the paper away. “You don’t know Bossi,” he muttered. “He’d try to collect it from my own dear mother.”
“Your mother?” said Slim, “The last I knew your insurance was payable to some doxie in the Colonies. South Carolina, if I remember correctly.”
“She’s not a ‘doxie’, as you so eloquently put it,” retorted Franko. “She’s my sister.”
Slim was stunned. He looked around at the others. “My God! The lad has a sister?”
Monk shook his head sadly. “A sister! Jeez, you know a guy for -- oh, what? -- ten days or so now -- and he never says a bleedin’ word about a sister. Is she good looking?”
“I wouldn’t introduce you guys to my dog,” grumped Franko, “not to mention my sister.”
“Such distrust of your teammates is unbecoming of a junior officer,” scolded Slim. “The lady could be of great value to us, you know, should we ever visit the Colonies.”
“Right,” snorted Franko. “She’s a nice girl and wouldn’t have anything to do with guys like you!”
“Hmm,” mused Che. “Does she write letters to her dear brother?”
Franko nodded. “Of course she does!”
“Well,” said Che, grinning, “she obviously has to do with one bloke like us.” Even Franko laughed.
“South Carolina,” said Duey. “Don’t they raise tobacco and make whiskey there?”
The others nodded. Each wore a thoughtful expression. “The lad gets right to the heart of the matter,” said Slim, “Once we get to France -- I mean when the actual invasion takes place -- then a steady supply of cigarettes, whiskey, and maybe candy bars would be invaluable.”
“Forget Franko’s sister,” said Monk, “We can steal booze and cigarettes right here.”
“Candy bars we can get at the PX, no problem,” added Duey.
“Nylons, now,” said Che. “Nylons are another matter. We need a source for those.”
“Franko, old boy,” said Slim genially, “check with your sister about black market nylons.”
“Forget it! My sister is in a convent. She’s going to become a nun.”
“A nun!” Monk clapped his hands together. “A bloody nun! Perfect! No one would ever suspect one of those.”
(to be continued)
Deceiving Creatures
“Pardon me, sir. Can you tell me where Allied Recon Group H might be located?”
A large man stood in the doorway. Filled the doorway, in fact. Monk eyed the intruder warily. “Well, lad, you’re bloody well standing in it. Who might you be?”
“Sir, I -- I think there’s been a mistake.” The big man twisted his hat into a shapeless mass.
“This is the bleedin’ Army, soldier. Mistakes are our stock in trade. You, for instance, are making a tragic mistake right this very minute.” Monk assumed a stern visage.
“Ah . . . what . . . what might that be, sir?”
Monk shook his head sadly. “There you go again. Sitting before you is a bleedin’ RCAF Flight Sergeant! Sergeant Monkhouse to you. I'm not a bloody farking officer!”
“Oh -- sorry. You was sitting in the Colonel’s office and at his desk, so I . . .” Indeed, Monk was in Colonel Muskrat’s office and at that same officer’s desk. Monk figured that all military property belonged to the public and, being part of the public, he was free to appropriate any such property as was not in use.
Monk elected not to explain all this to the man mountain. “I’m borrowing the office, large person. Now tell me about this other mistake.” He motioned for the lad to sit down.
“Well, I’ve been sent to this here ARGH outfit . . .” The big fellow stopped speaking; his mouth formed into an “O”. “Hey -- ARGH -- that’s funny. Just like in the cartoons!” He laughed in a deep, rumbling way. Monk decided to hate him.
“Which isn’t the only funny thing about this outfit,” said Monk with bland certainty.
“So, here I am. And it seems to me that there’s been a mistake, sir -- er, sergeant.”
The conversation was making Monk tired. “Tell me why is you’re being here such a bloody mistake. Have you any orders?”
Orders were handed over and Monk learned that one Dumas Treacle, PFC, US Army Ranger, was assigned to ARGH. “An interesting name -- I assume you go by a nickname?”
“Yeah. I was named after a rich uncle -- who went broke in '29. My friends call me Duey. Mom said nobody ever called me later for dinner either.” Again with the earthquake laugh.
“Enough levity, Duey! You have been assigned to this unit for a special assignment involving very dangerous activity, possibly in France. How do you feel about that?”
“Oh, man,” said Duey. “France! That would be fantastic! What kind of weapons would I be using? Not a BAR, I hope.”
“You don’t like the BAR?” Frankly, Monk thought a light machine gun with a 20-round clip was stupid, not to mention morally repugnant.
“It’s a piece of crap!” exclaimed Duey. Monk’s estimation of the lad went up a notch.
“What would you like to carry?”
“Well, since it’s in France, how about an MG-42?”
“A German machine gun? Why?”
“It’s the best light machine gun in the world, for one thing. For another, ammo wouldn’t be a problem. We just knock over a few krauts and there’s our ammo.” Duey looked more intelligent by the minute.
“How about the MP-40?”
“Sure. Good backup to the MG-42.”
“You’ll carry both? You’ll want a Luger, as well, I suppose?”
“I’ll carry the MG-42 for shock value, the MP-40 for close-in stuff, and no, I don’t want a Luger. I’ll take a Colt automatic. Regular 1911A1.”
“I like the Colt myself,” agreed Monk.
“Damn right,” said Duey, warming to the subject. “Drop that hand cannon in the mud and it’ll still shoot. Run out of bullets and it makes a dandy club.”
Monk automatically figured anyone who agreed with him was intelligent. Duey was smarter than he looked. “I don’t suppose you speak any French?”
“Some. A lady back home taught me quite a bit. Got along okay during the Dieppe raid.”
“You were in that bloody mess?”
Duey nodded. “Yeah, that’s where I first used the MG-42 and MP-40. Took ‘em off dead krauts. Captain made me turn ‘em in when we got back.” The memory of losing the German weapons seemed to make him genuinely sad.
“Too bad. We’ll get you some new toys. So you learned French at home?”
Duey seemed reluctant. Monk grinned. “This lady -- she teach you anything besides French?”
Red faced and chuckling, the big man nodded. “Yeah. I was nearly sixteen when she moved to town. Her husband traveled a lot. Gone for weeks at a time. I guess she was lonely.”
“I’m sure she was. How old was the lady?”
“Late twenties. Not over thirty. I mowed her lawn and did other chores around the house.”
“I’ll bet you bloody well did! How long did this go on?”
“Until I graduated from high school and left for the Army.” Duey grinned. “Told my little brother to go over and offer to help out after I was gone.”
Monk exploded with laughter. “Bloody good show! Have you heard from him?”
“Yeah, a couple months later I got a letter from him. He said the lady had given him something special for his sixteenth birthday. The word special was heavily underlined. He’s probably screwing himself half to death. I know I did.” They both laughed again.
“Damn, Duey, I think you’ll fit right in at this bloody lunatic asylum. I don’t suppose you learned any German. Maybe from another friendly lady?”
“Nah. All I know is what they’ve been teaching us in the Army. You know, all that ‘surrender’ and ‘throw down your weapon’ crap.”
“You don’t think those phrases will come in handy? Some jerries may want to surrender.”
“Well,” said Duey, “they better learn to say ‘I surrender’ in English. If they say anything in kraut I’m just gonna put bullet holes in ‘em. Safer that way.”
“Right,” agreed Monk. “It’s good to have another bleedin’ philosopher around.” He stood up and stretched. “Come on. I’ll show you where to put your gear. Then we’ll get some dinner.”
“I’m for that,” said Duey. “It’s been a couple hours since I ate.”
*****
Monk spotted Leftenant Slim entering the mess and waved him over to the table. Duey was shoveling away at his second helping of everything -- near as Monk could figure. The lad could eat, no doubt about it. With shoulders that barely fit through doorways and a build that would have been appropriate on a medium size truck, Duey looked like he could be very useful if you had to, say, take out a pillbox -- by hand.
Slim sat down, eyeing Monk’s companion with interest. “Who might this be?”
Monk grinned. “This bloody portable mountain is Duey. He appears to belong to us, sir. Had we requested battalion-sized reinforcements?”
Slim laughed. Duey managed a sheepish grin and shook hands. Then he dug in afresh. Monk drained his coffee and stood. “I’m going down to the flightline, sir. I’ll check at Ops for any messages.” Slim nodded and Monk went on his way.
Slim sipped his coffee as Duey ate. He marveled at the lad’s endurance and capacity. “You joined the Army for the food, I take it?”
Duey gave him a perplexed look. “Yes, sir. Sort of. Pa said he couldn’t feed me any more. Not after my brother started getting his full growth.” He shrugged. “There weren’t no jobs and I could see the war coming. So, here I am.” He waved at the meager remains on the table. “This stuff ain’t much like Ma’s cooking, but there’s plenty of it.”
“Not any more there isn’t,” chuckled Slim.
Duey frowned. “I don’t want to be out of line, sir. But, that Monk character is a little strange looking. Sorta like something out of a horror story.”
“Don’t tell him that,” warned Slim. “He’s a bit sensitive. Especially about the fangs.”
“I noticed those right off, but didn’t say nothing. Is it some sorta birth thingy?”
“No, no, it’s not a birth defect.” Slim paused. “The thing is, Duey, we don’t know a hell of a lot about Monk. He just showed up one day with an A-20 of his own, a phony British accent, and a set of orders assigning him to this unit.”
“His own plane?” Duey’s forehead wrinkled. “How’s a flight sergeant rate a personal plane? And he ain’t a birth defective then what is he?”
Slim was silent for a moment. “He says he’s half one thing.” He smiled slightly. “And half something else. We assume he’s at least half human, but the issue is open to question.”
Duey held his hands up. “Say no more, sir. I don’t have a problem with weird people. You should of seen my last platoon sergeant!”
Slim nodded. “I can well imagine! I’m afraid that isn’t all. Monk brought along a crew chief-gunner who -- ah -- well, he claims to be a small dragon.” Duey studied Slim’s face, but said nothing. “His name is Che. Every week or so he disappears. Claims to go someplace mysterious where he can turn back into a dragon.”
“So he can eat?”
“Yes,” said Slim in an astonished tone. “That’s what he says. How did you know?”
Shaking his head, Duey said, “I don’t know. It just figures. Wow! I can’t believe I was lucky enough to land this assignment!”
“Assignment? Oh, you mean being attached to this unit?”
“No,” answered Duey. “Well, that too. But I’m really glad to go on this next mission!”
“What mission?” asked Slim. Now it was his turn to be perplexed.
“The mission to save some guy named O'Leary.”
Slim eyed Duey with trepidation. “Did you bring along some orders or something?”
Shaking his head, Duey pointed at the mess hall entrance. “Nope. Monk just got them. See. He’s bringing ‘em now.”
Monk was, indeed, walking quickly toward them -- as quickly as his odd, bowlegged stride would carry him. He was waving a set of papers. Slim looked back at Duey. “How the hell did you know that?”
“Search me, sir,” answered the big man, “Sometimes I just know.”
Monk plunked down in a chair. “Orders! We’ve got orders to go find a lunk named O'Leary and spring him form Nazi custody.”
“I know,” said Slim, pondering the implications, “Duey just told me.”
Dr. O'Leary’s Secret
“Let me get this straight,” said Slim. “The Germans think they have this -- scientific fellow -- Dr. O'Leary. And we want them to keep on thinking they have him.” The briefing officer nodded in agreement. “Okay,” Slim went on, “now tell me again how rescuing our O'Leary, fits into this grand scheme of yours.”
“Um,” the briefing officer thought for a minute. “We -- uh, I mean -- the authorities in the US have lost track of the real Dr. O'Leary.”
“Lost track of him?” asked Monk. “Lost his current address, lost him in a park, or -- what?”
The officer avoided looking directly at Monk. “Ah -- you see -- Dr. O'Leary had been complaining of too much work and not enough booze. He’s Irish, you know.”
“Well,” said Slim sarcastically, “I guess that explains everything! An Irish scientist wanders off to spend a little quiet time with his whiskey, so we have to waltz over to France and convince the Jerries that they’re holding that Irish drunk and not our O'Leary, another Irish drunk. Does that sum it all up?”
Duey looked confused. “I’m really confused,” he mumbled.
Captain Franko, ARGH’s other American, patted him on the back. “Welcome to the Central Confusion Society, lad. I’m sure it will get worse in a minute.”
The briefing officer eased toward the door. “We -- um, that is, your lot just needs to keep the Germans guessing for a few days. Let them think they have Dr. O'Leary long enough for the -- ah, real O'Leary to be located.” He started through the door.
“Not so fast!” Monk dragged the officer back into the room and slammed the door. “What does this bloody Dr. O'Leary do that’s so damned important? Why would the Germans want him in the first place? Is he one of them ‘atomic scientists’ none of us is supposed to know about?”
The officer was appalled. “Where did you hear about atomic stuff? That’s Triple Top Secret!” Tears spilled down his face. “You have to have a secret decoder ring to be part of the Triple Top Secret Club. I -- I don’t even have one.” He broke into sobs.
Franko leaned over to Duey. “What are atomics anyway?”
Duey shrugged. “Microscopic thingmies -- sorta like your . . .” He broke off laughing. Franko essayed a thin smile and shook his head.
Slim consoled the distraught briefing officer. “It’s okay. Monk was just kidding. We don’t know anything about atom bombs or stealth planes or any of that high tech junk. So tell us what Dr. O'Leary does. Even if it involves some sort of wonder weapon or alien creatures. We can keep a secret. Scout’s honor. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Controlling himself, the officer pulled some pictures from his valise. “It’s better to show you, I guess.” He spread the photos out on a table. The men gazed at them in stunned silence.
Franko let out a low whistle. Duey swallowed hard. Monk cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. Slim touched the pictures gingerly, as if afraid to mar them. “These are fantastic!” he breathed. “But, what does Dr. O'Leary have to do with these -- ah -- scantily clad women?”
The officer gazed at the pictures reverently, “Look at the -- um . . .”
“Yes,” said Franko in a strained voice, “look at them. Not just generous -- but . . .”
Gathering the photos, the briefing officer explained, “Dr. O'Leary has invented a device. A non-surgical device that combines anti-gravity waves and atomic restructuring. It gives any woman a pair of youthful -- ah . . .”
“Boobs,” said Duey. “Why are we waltzing around here! Boobs. Damn nice ones, too.”
“A single treatment with Dr. O'Leary’s device is sufficient for about six months. I assume you gentlemen are familiar with the Nazi’s fascination with well endowed women?” Still in shock, the men nodded. “Well,” the officer continued, “what do you suppose they would do for the secret of this machine?”
“The question is,” said Slim, “What wouldn’t they do for it?”
“What’s this thing -- this device called?” asked Monk.
“Dr. O'Leary called it the MEM -- Mammary Enhancement Machine. We -- uh -- we refer to it as the boobilyzer.” He grinned in embarrassment. “Sort of an inside joke.”
“So,” said Slim, recovering a bit, “we have to distract the Germans from trying to locate this Dr. O'Leary. And we do that by attempting a rescue of our old pal, O'Leary.” He thought for a moment. “What if he just tells them who he is?”
“Would you believe him?” asked the officer. “If you were a Nazi, I mean?” The men all shook their heads with a chorus of ‘no way’, ‘hell no’, and ‘I’d beat it out of him’.
Duey looked puzzled. “Why do we care if the Germans get hold of this O'Leary and his boobilyzer thing? So what if all the women in Kraut land get rejuvenated boobs?”
“Morale,” said the briefing officer, “Morale.” He held up one of the more fantastic photos. “If you were German -- and all the young and not so young women in Germany were equipped like this -- wouldn’t your fight damned hard to keep Russian, British, and -- most of all -- Canadian troops away from the old homestead?”
They all nodded, speechless.
“Okay,” said Slim after a reverent pause, “I guess Operation Deny Boobs is on.”
Loading for Bear
Slim raised his head over the parapet. The target vehicle, an old five-ton lorry, was reduced to a heap of twisted steel. The rubber remaining on the shredded tires was burning, adding to the towering smoke cloud. Bits of metal, wood, and canvas covered the ground. Some pieces were still fluttering down. “Goddamn, lad! What was that?”
Duey patted the bazooka tube affectionately, “Gets your attention, don’t it?”
Slim turned to meet the range officer. “What the bloody hell are you lot doing?” The officer was covered with dirt and splinters. He stood at the edge of the pit and surveyed the damage to his target lorry. “Look at my target!” he shouted. “You’ve blown it to bloody fragments!”
Slim led the furious officer away, speaking soothingly. “An experimental round, I’m afraid. The chaps at the factory didn’t mention it being this powerful. Dreadfully sorry, old man.” The others climbed out of the pit, dusting dirt off clothing and shaking out caps. Small scraps of canvas continued to drift down.
“Well,” said Slim, upon his return, “this range is off-limits to us for the duration.” He gazed around at the group. “Anyone care to tell me what sort of projectile that was?”
“Um -- the round was standard HE, sir,” said Duey. “Except we added a little something to boost it -- just a bit.”
Monk and Che developed a sudden interest in getting back into the truck they’d brought to the range. “Get back here, you two!” snapped Slim. “And explain to me, in simple terms, what was added to that explosive charge what nearly blew our bloody heads off!”
Monk didn’t say anything. Che shrugged and said, “It was only a little something the lads over at Technical Developments came up with -- uh -- sir. Just a few drops.”
“Technical Developments,” repeated Slim carefully. “An experimental explosive. Right! I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Back in the truck! We’ll just run along back to base now.” He caught Duey as everyone scrambled aboard. “How many drops did you use, lad?”
“Three, sir. Just three.”
Slim clapped him on the back. “No more than one drop from now on, lad. No more than one. It’s considered good form to survive the application of your own weapons.”
*****
Franko groaned as he hefted his gear. “I don’t know why we have to take this damn bazooka. I can’t carry all this crap!”
In the evening twilight five men were loading gear aboard a Lysander. They were in no hurry. The mission couldn’t begin until full dark.
“Jeez, maybe I can carry some of it,” offered Duey.
Slim shook his head emphatically. “No you won’t. You’re already carrying enough for a pack mule. He can handle it.”
“Yeah, Franko,” chided Monk. “Carry your own stuff, you big crybaby.”
“Monk,” retorted Franko, “All you’re carrying around is an empty head. Buzz off!”
“Careful,” said Che, elbowing Monk, “Franko just came back from survival school. He’s a bonafide commando now.” They all roared with laughter -- except Franko. Red-faced, he began examining his boots.
Duey looked around in puzzlement. Monk told the story:
After being dropped in the highlands, along with nine other survival students, Franko made his way straight to the nearest road, hitched a ride into town, and spent the next two nights at a local brothel. The town constable delivered his sodden remains to the school commander’s office on the morning of the third day, having found him lying in a ditch -- blind drunk and clad only in his dogtags and one sock. The commander, a heavy-set British major, was not amused.
“Well,” Franko explained, “they just told us to survive. It was implied, but not actually stated, that we should stay out in the damp woods and eat small innocent animals. I didn’t know it was required.” He grinned crookedly. “It was much warmer and drier with the tarts.”
“Too bloody right!” agreed Monk, chuckling. “I think you were quite resourceful. Selling your equipment to finance your -- ah -- romantic endeavors was a stroke of genius.” He paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Although it was one of the sticky points raised by that rather straight-laced British major. We had a terrible time convincing him to release you. He was obsessed with a courts martial, to be followed immediately by a firing squad.”
Franko looked bleak. “I don’t remember any of this. How’d you get him to let me go?”
“Sergeant Bossi showed up with paperwork proving that you had turned all that stuff in through the proper channels,” explained Slim. “He even had a chit for the fifty pounds he loaned you.”
“Fifty pounds!” yelled Franko. “What fifty pounds?”
“Why, the fifty pounds you spent at the -- um -- sporting establishment.” Slim extended a slip of paper. “Here’s the chit -- what did he call it -- ah, yes -- the IOU.”
Franko spluttered. “Why that -- that rotten, no-good . . . It’s robbery! Extortion. I won’t pay it! Not a penny of it!” He crumpled the paper and tossed it away.
“Monk,” said Slim, “What were the various penalties the major intended to invoke for our lad here? Excluding the firing squad, of course. I think the major was merely over-excited when he threatened him with that.”
Monk scratched his head. “Well, leaving out the firing squad, I think it was hard labor, sir. Yes, that’s it! Hard bloody labor for up to ten years.” He held up a hand. “Providing, of course, they was to recover his rifle. With the rifle it was more like twenty years, if I recalls correctly.”
“I hear,” said Slim benevolently, “that the climate at Leavenworth isn’t bad, except for most of the year.”
The color drained from Franko’s face. He swallowed. “I -- ah . . .” He patted his pockets. “What happened to that IOU? I’ll have to get my good buddy, Bossi, to write me a new one.”
Che handed him a crumpled paper. “You better keep this one. Who knows how much he might put on another one?” He grinned. “Why worry? Either one of you might be dead in a few days. Can’t collect money from the dead -- or owe it too them.”
Franko tucked the paper away. “You don’t know Bossi,” he muttered. “He’d try to collect it from my own dear mother.”
“Your mother?” said Slim, “The last I knew your insurance was payable to some doxie in the Colonies. South Carolina, if I remember correctly.”
“She’s not a ‘doxie’, as you so eloquently put it,” retorted Franko. “She’s my sister.”
Slim was stunned. He looked around at the others. “My God! The lad has a sister?”
Monk shook his head sadly. “A sister! Jeez, you know a guy for -- oh, what? -- ten days or so now -- and he never says a bleedin’ word about a sister. Is she good looking?”
“I wouldn’t introduce you guys to my dog,” grumped Franko, “not to mention my sister.”
“Such distrust of your teammates is unbecoming of a junior officer,” scolded Slim. “The lady could be of great value to us, you know, should we ever visit the Colonies.”
“Right,” snorted Franko. “She’s a nice girl and wouldn’t have anything to do with guys like you!”
“Hmm,” mused Che. “Does she write letters to her dear brother?”
Franko nodded. “Of course she does!”
“Well,” said Che, grinning, “she obviously has to do with one bloke like us.” Even Franko laughed.
“South Carolina,” said Duey. “Don’t they raise tobacco and make whiskey there?”
The others nodded. Each wore a thoughtful expression. “The lad gets right to the heart of the matter,” said Slim, “Once we get to France -- I mean when the actual invasion takes place -- then a steady supply of cigarettes, whiskey, and maybe candy bars would be invaluable.”
“Forget Franko’s sister,” said Monk, “We can steal booze and cigarettes right here.”
“Candy bars we can get at the PX, no problem,” added Duey.
“Nylons, now,” said Che. “Nylons are another matter. We need a source for those.”
“Franko, old boy,” said Slim genially, “check with your sister about black market nylons.”
“Forget it! My sister is in a convent. She’s going to become a nun.”
“A nun!” Monk clapped his hands together. “A bloody nun! Perfect! No one would ever suspect one of those.”
(to be continued)
